Absent Without Leave
by LittlePippin76
Summary: A Soldier goes missing in Afghanistan and his young wife receives a strange message. Can Sherlock and John help her to find some answers? Basic Adventure/Mystery/Friendship, no slash, not much fluff, bit of hurt/comfort. Now complete. Pip.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One.

Sherlock studied John in a lazy fashion over the top of his book. His own lethargy was contrasted in the almost manic behaviour of his flatmate. So far this morning he risen late and then spent a great deal of time first showering and then cleaning the bathroom. He had then gone straight into the kitchen to do the washing up. That had led to him cleaning the oven, which was quite handy as there was still melted polystyrene in there from when Sherlock had tried to cook a pizza in there a few weeks ago. He'd moved on from the oven to the fridge and had slowly unloaded everything that was in it onto the countertop and then started washing it methodically with a tub full of soapy water.

"Are these ears?" he suddenly called to Sherlock.

"Leave them where you found them!" Sherlock responded. He was glad John had mentioned them; he'd entirely forgotten that he'd started that experiment.

"I can't; I'm cleaning the fridge."

"Clearly." Sherlock responded. He thought for a moment. "Throw them in the bin. They aren't important any more."

John appeared. "I can't do that!" They're human ears; you can't put human ears in the household waste."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. John didn't answer but he raised his eyebrows at him. Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine; put them back for now; I'll get rid of them later."

"I'm about to start clearing the table. Is there anything on there that might kill me?"

Sherlock looked back at his book. "Not quickly, anyhow."

John rolled his eyes. "You could help me you know." He said.

"Why?" Sherlock answered. "I don't care if it's a mess." He went back to his book.

John disappeared into the kitchen again.

If truth be told, Sherlock was finding John's behaviour delightful. Not specifically the cleaning; he had been quite honest when he said that he didn't care, as far as he was concerned the flat needed four walls and a roof to provide adequate shelter and anything beyond that was an added bonus. This particular flat better than most because of the central location and having Mrs Hudson in residence, but other than that it was a place to be while he was between cases, and nothing more. What was delighting him at the moment is that he couldn't quite work out why John had suddenly embarked on a cleaning frenzy. He considered five main hypotheses.

One; the season. Apparently people regularly clean in the Spring and though the reason for it eluded Sherlock, he suspected it was something deeply primal, such as the feeling of coming out of hibernation. Preparing the dwelling for a new year. He'd never been similarly affected but John was of course slightly less evolved than he was. The watery March sun was shining happily on Baker Street, so it was at least possible. On the other hand, it had been shining in the same way yesterday, and the day before, and though John had been increasingly moody over the last week, he hadn't started the cleaning until today.

Two; precautions. He wondered if John had unearthed something unpleasant by accident, and was therefore taking the precaution of cleaning thoroughly to avoid a repeat occurrence. Sherlock concentrated, mentally viewing each room of the house. Probably the worst thing, though 'worst' was subject to interpretation here, were the ears in the fridge that he'd forgotten about. He failed to believe that he was capable of two such lapses on one day, and the cleaning had started before the discovery, so that was unlikely too.

Three; expecting a house-guest. That was intriguing. If John was expecting a mutual acquaintance, he would have said. That ruled out quite a number of people. It was possible that John was intending to bring a lady-friend home with him and the thought of that delighted Sherlock. He always had such fun when John did that. He frowned. John hadn't brought anyone home for several months now. He knew that there had been women on and off since then, which meant that John had learned that bringing them back to the flat was a bad idea. John was many things but he was not stupid. Well, not very stupid anyway. So that was ruled out.

Four; aliens. Aliens had landed on the planet and replacing the brains of unsuspecting humans with something from a race that particularly liked cleaning and John had fallen prey to their evil scheme. He told himself he really must stop watching Doctor Who and ruled that out too.

Five; drugs. In John's case, this was even less likely than the aliens.

He thought about interrogating John slightly to see if any further clues presented themselves but he decided that having his chemistry equipment cleaned and organised was too useful to interrupt John's flow now. He settled back to his book.

About an hour later John appeared in the living room with two cups of tea. He put Sherlock's on the coffee table by the sofa and took his own to his armchair, where he sat down, sighing. A moment later he sprang up again to tidy the books and paperwork on the table into neat, precise, piles. He sat back down.

Sherlock watched him as he reached over to Sherlock's bookshelf and pulled one of the books forward slightly. A frown appeared. Suddenly he got up and disappeared into the kitchen again, reappearing with a duster a few moments later.

Sherlock couldn't resist any longer. "John, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm dusting the bookshelves." John responded.

"Yes, but why?"

"Because books get dusty!"

"Why are you cleaning everything in sight like a fussy old lady?"

John looked at him. "I'm not!" he protested. He glanced round at the pristine flat. "Sometimes it's nice when things are neat and tidy."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No, that's not it. There's something else isn't there. What is it? Aliens or drugs?"

John stared out of the window, stubbornly refusing to dignify that with an answer.

"Tell me!" commanded, Sherlock.

"It's nothing. I'm just a bit..."

"What?" demanded Sherlock.

"Bored! I'm bored, OK! I'm bored out of my brains and I tend to clean things when I get bored."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and then roared with laughter. John blushed.

"Bored!" Sherlock said. "_You_ get bored?"

"Of course I get bored. Boredom isn't the privilege of the genius!" John snapped.

"But you've never cleaned like this before!"

"I've never been bored before! Not here anyway; the hotel room I lived in before moving in was immaculate."

"Well," said Sherlock, looking at John fondly, "it appears we're both reprieved. That's the sound of Mrs Hudson answering the door and if I'm not mistaken the caller will be redirected upstairs to consult with me. Ah yes." They listened as footsteps sounded up the stairs. "A woman, small and youngish, not police. She's distressed."

John was about to demand an explanation when there was a tentative tap on their living room door.

"Come in." Sherlock called standing up. John stood too as the door opened and a small, mousy looking woman came into the room. She looked to be in her early thirties, fair skin and brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was thin, and John suspected had lost some weight recently. She was pretty, and John instantly pitied her for hollows over her cheekbones which suggested sleeplessness and for the red, watery look of her eyes.

"Hello." She said. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes", Sherlock said, holding his hand out for her to shake. She did so but seemed slightly nervous of the tall man in front of her. Sherlock smiled and waved her to John's armchair while he took his customary chair opposite her. Her eyes flickered towards John.

"This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock told her shortly.

"I can leave if you'd rather..." John said to their guest.

"No you can't." Sherlock said shortly.

"It's fine." John smiled at the woman. She was looking more unnerved by the minute. "Can I make you a cup of tea or anything?"

"No, please stay. To be honest, I came because I knew you'd be here too." She said.

Sherlock looked at her sharply and John just frowned in confusion. He sat down though on the sofa to hear what she had to say.

"I looked at the website; your website," she glanced at Sherlock, and then at John "and then I saw that you lived with him and help him sometimes. A friend mentioned you to me and..." She trailed off, and then suddenly snorted. "Oh, listen to me! I'm starting at entirely the wrong end and babbling. Sorry. Sorry... I'm just." She swiped away a stray tear that escaped from her eyes and looked away into the fire.

"It's fine." Sherlock said, sitting forward and, John noted, taking her gently by the hand. "What I suggest is as follows; we have the tea that Doctor Watson suggests, you warm up as you've run out this morning entirely under-dressed for the season, and we start again, at the beginning, and see what we can do to help you."

She nodded. John quickly darted through to the kitchen, feeling mildly annoyed that Sherlock had currently designated him the role of tea-boy.

They were quiet in the living room and Sherlock waited until he got back with the tea before starting with his usual trick.

"You're a teacher." He told her.

"Yes. I teach year one." She didn't seem particularly moved by his deduction.

"And you're here about your husband."

She gasped. "Yes; how did you know?"

"You've been playing with your wedding ring from the moment you sat down. Your husband is on your mind a great deal at the moment. More than is usual."

She looked down at her hands. John noticed they were pale and elegantly long fingered and she was indeed playing with a thin gold band on her wedding finger.

"Your husband's a soldier on service abroad." Sherlock went on.

The young lady nodded and gave a thin smile.

Sherlock smiled at her. "If you're feeling a little better after some of the good doctor's tea, why don't we start from the beginning? In fact, why don't we start with your name?"

"Yes." She straightened her clothes in a nervous but graceful fashion. "My name is Mary Morstan. My husband is serving in Afghanistan at the moment; he's a sergeant in the 3rd Lancaster regiment stationed close to Kabul."

"Wait a minute." John cut in. "Is your husband Nick Morstan?"

"Yes", Mary smiled. "I wondered if it was you when I saw your name on the blog. Nick was treated by you a couple of years ago. He said you were a decent bloke. Those were his words; 'he's a decent bloke.'"

John smiled. "I'm glad he thinks so." He was aware of Sherlock watching him intently. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to interrupt. Please carry on."

"Three weeks ago I was contacted by Colonel Adamson in charge of Nick's regiment and he told me that Nick was missing. He wasn't out of their camp for any official reason; there was nobody with him, no-one knew where he'd gone or when. He just seemed to have disappeared. The Colonel wanted me to contact him if Nick showed up here."

"The assumption is he'd deserted?" Sherlock clarified.

"Yes. That's what they thought had happened. Some of his belongings had been packed from his room; not much, not everything but enough for him to be away for a night or two. He hadn't had any leave allotted though. There was no sign of a struggle in his lodging either; it looks as though he walked out the door. We waited several days to see if there was any ransom asked but there was none. It doesn't look like he was kidnapped. He's just gone."

She stopped for a while. John noticed her hands were shaking slightly and she fought to control them while drinking her tea. Sherlock was watching her intently.

"Why did you come to see me?" He asked abruptly. "I doubt I can do anything to find your husband that the British Army aren't already doing. Something else happened which caused you to come here."

"I got an email." She told him. "It was odd, so I ignored it, but then there was another. They're... odd. I wasn't really sure what to make of them." She took out several pieces of paper from her bag and held them out to Sherlock. "I showed them to one of my colleagues and she said that perhaps you might be able to help me with them. She said you'd helped her Aunt out with something similar."

Sherlock took the e-mails. He read them through briefly then handed them on to John.

There were three emails. The first was dated ten days before.

"_Dear Mrs Morstan,_

_I am writing to you concerning your husband. I have news that may be of interest to you. Please contact me promptly._

_Your servant,_

_Hassan Hafeez" _

The second one was four days ago.

"_Dear Mrs Morstan,_

_I am disappointed to not have heard from you. It is in your best interests that you contact me._

_Your servant,_

_Hassan Hafeez"_

The last was dated today.

"_Dear Mrs Morstan,_

_I fear my approaches to you may have been misinterpreted or misunderstood. I would like the opportunity to set the record straight. My brother and I were in contact with your husband several weeks ago in Afganastan. I would like to meet you in person as this medium is confusing and difficult for me. I understand this proposition will concern you so I suggest you bring with you two friends or colleagues to protect your integrity._

_Please meet me at Mascara restaurant on Charing Cross Road at 7:30 this evening. Please contact me to confirm._

_Your servant,_

_Hassan Hafeez"_

Mary looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Every instinct in me tells me not to go, but..."

"But you're curious about what this man might have to say about your husband." Sherlock finished for her. Mary nodded.

"I know it's unlikely to lead to anything." She said.

"Have you contacted his regiment about this?"

"Yes. But they weren't interested; they're of the opinion this is just a prank."

"Not a very funny prank." John stated, feeling sorry for this woman being played with in this way.

"I don't think this is a prank at all." Sherlock told them. "While I'm not hopeful that you'll get all the answers you deserve, I do believe that this Mr Hafeez thinks that he can help you. I have no dinner plans this evening; I'd be happy to accompany you if you would like to meet him."

"Me too." John put in a little too quickly. "If you want to go that is."

"I think I do." She answered slowly. "I'm not fooling myself; I don't think anything will come from this, but I don't know I could live with myself if I didn't at least try."

Sherlock smiled at her. "Yes; curiosity of this kind can be quite distracting, can't it? You contact Mr Hafeez and agree to the meeting, and return here at 7:00 and we will see what we will see."

Mary thanked him and John saw her downstairs to the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three.

When John returned to the living room he found Sherlock deep in thought, his fingertips steepled against each other. He sat down in the recently vacated armchair.

"Tell me about Nick Morstan." Sherlock demanded.

"I didn't really know him." John said, shrugging. "I treated him for a mild complaint once a long time ago."

"Yet he formed an opinion of you."

"Yes, well, 'Sound bloke' is hardly an in depth assessment of my character."

"While it's not the phrase I would use, it's a fairly accurate summary. You made enough of an impression for him to mention you to his wife and for her to remember your name."

"Well, I don't know what I did that was unusual anyhow."

Sherlock gave John a steady stare. "I think one of the more remarkable things about you, John, is that what you consider to be perfectly ordinary actions are often quite beyond someone else's reach."

John snorted. "Well, coming from you of all people that's quite a statement."

"So, you met Nick Morstan, performed perfectly ordinary services, and he came away with the impression that you were a 'sound bloke' and you came away with a dislike of him."

"I didn't say I didn't like him." John said quickly.

"You didn't have to."Sherlock told him. "It's in your body language, your dismissal of his compliment to you, the fact that you had the perfect opportunity to respond with similar flattery about his character to his wife but you didn't; of course you would have said if you remembered him fondly, but you wouldn't have lied. You chose to say nothing about him."

"Maybe I didn't remember him at all."

"You volunteered his name first."

"All right. OK then, I didn't like him." John told him. "I didn't know him that well but he had a reputation for being a bully. When I did meet him face to face that reputation was born out. If truth be told, I'm slightly insulted that he found me 'sound'."

"He bullied you?" Sherlock asked, with a frown.

"No, of course he didn't. I had to have a conversation with him about the correct way to address one of the nurses on the team though."

"So, not all our troops are the best of the British, our 'great heroic lads' then?"

"No, of course not, there are different characters in the armed services like there are in any other profession, and you know that full well." John stared out the window into the distance remembering those days. His hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly.

"What did you treat him for?" Sherlock asked, breaking through his thoughts.

"What? I'm not going to share that information with you!"

Sherlock tutted and sighed. "You know, John, for someone who says he wants to help, you do like to put a certain amount of hurdles in my way."

"How can his medical history possibly be relevant?"

"I don't know until I know what it is."

"Well I can't tell you." John snapped.

Sherlock looked at him, crossly. "If we assume he's dead, could you tell me then?" John ignored him. "Oh for heaven's sake, John, I have no idea why a doctor's knowledge of the human body gives him the right to moralise and set in place stupid, petty rules about the sharing of information."

John's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. His knuckles glowed white.

"Fine." Sherlock snapped. "I'll do without. What do you make of Mrs Morstan?"

John jolted back to the present. "Er, she seemed nice."

"Nice?" Sherlock repeated, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes. Nice."

Sherlock sighed, dramatically.

John tried again. "I think she's mismatched to Nick Morstan. She deserves a better husband."

This made Sherlock sit up straight. "That's a very loaded statement. I wonder if you could explain your thinking to me."

John thought a while. "In my opinion, Mary Morstan is a nice person. She is clearly distressed about her husband going missing. She's loyal to him. I have reason to believe he wasn't quite as loyal to her. It's a shame when loyalty in a relationship is one sided." He looked up at Sherlock. "In my opinion." He added.

Sherlock ignored his look. "You think she's chaste?" He asked.

"I think that's an old fashioned expression, but yes, I don't think she's unfaithful anyhow."

"What makes you think that?"

"I don't know." He thought of Sherlock's methods and his ability to read someone's mood from the smallest sign. "Am I wrong?"

"Of course she is faithful to him. She wouldn't have turned up here wearing her wedding ring otherwise."

"Well, she asked us to help find her husband. It's not a great stretch to assume she'd have a wedding ring; why would she try to hide it from us?"

"You miss the point; she has her wedding ring on but not her engagement ring. She wears her engagement ring sometimes, perhaps for more dressy occasions, but doesn't remove her wedding ring at all. If she was unfaithful she either wouldn't wear either to demonstrate her availability, or wear both because if you're putting on one ring you might as well put on both. Her engagement ring didn't enter her consciousness this morning; her mind was in too much turmoil and she didn't think about her wedding ring at all either. It's a part of who she is now: she doesn't take it off at all."

John smiled. "Sometimes I think you read a little too much into the state of people's wedding rings." He said.

Sherlock smiled at him, accepting the jibe. "I haven't been proved wrong yet, have I?"

"So what did you think of Mary?" John asked him.

"Mrs Morstan? She seemed… nice."

"Nice?" John asked, with raised eyebrows.

"Yes. She has in interesting and well organised mind. She gave us all the details that we'd need without any preamble; she'd brought all the evidence she had. You'll note that she'd ignored the e-mails initially but hadn't deleted them; that speaks of a forward thinking mind. She was clearly in a highly emotional state but was able to stay calm enough to concentrate on the immediate. She chided herself for babbling; it's a trait she doesn't like. She seems like a remarkable woman; I don't like the idea of her being toyed with in this way. She seems aesthetically pleasing, or at least would be if she was less stressed and was able to sleep at night."

John found himself paying close attention to Sherlock during this speech. He found he was bothered by it for some indefinable reason, which felt slightly churlish.

"So," Sherlock continued, "we have charming young woman married to an army bully. He goes missing and she worries, but doesn't do anything about it until she receives mysterious emails from a stranger. She's delightful, I'm sure she has many friends but she doesn't turn to them, she turns to some strangers she knows only by reputation. And of course the most intriguing part is why this stranger wants to talk to her at all. I wonder what he'll have to say."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know." John replied.

Sherlock looked at him, sharply. "Are you sulking? Why are you sulking?"

"I'm not sulking!" he said quickly, knowing that he probably was. He tried to shake his crossness off. "So what do we do now?" He asked Sherlock.

"Do? There's nothing to do now but wait until this evening. I'm going to play my violin. Perhaps you could find something to clean."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four.

Mary arrived back at the flat at 6:55. John let her in; Sherlock, he assumed, was still somewhere about the flat preening himself. When he appeared, however, he looked exactly the same as he always did. John tried hard not to notice Sherlock noticing that he was wearing his best shirt and trousers and black shoes.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, after giving John a gentle frown. He stepped out into road to hail a cab.

The taxi ride to Charring Cross road was quiet. Sherlock appeared to be thinking and Mary was tense. John tried to calm her by starting random conversations but to no avail. Though she smiled patiently at him, she didn't encourage him to talk and he soon lapsed into silence too.

"We're here." Sherlock suddenly said, springing into action. He held the door open for Mary and offered her his arm, leaving John to pay for the taxi.

A waitress in the restaurant showed them to a table and explained that the restaurant owner, Mr Hafeez, was running late but had said they should order and eat.

Sherlock surprised John by ordering a lamb curry and not only eating it but also apparently enjoying it. He seemed to completely relax into the evening and chatted, primarily with Mary, on a number of subjects. His jovial spirit seemed to be more contagious than John's had been and Mary soon relaxed too. The talked about all sorts of things; music, literature and somewhat amazingly, politics. Sherlock hung on Mary's every word as she explained about the budgetary cuts in education. She was just finishing a tirade about SATS scores for seven year olds when a short, plump man interrupted and introduced himself.

"Good evening, good lady and sirs; I am Mr Hassan Hafeez."

Both Sherlock and John stood to give their names and shake his hand. Mary seemed to be getting anxious again, but she took his hand and gave him a small smile.

"I apologise for the delay." He said to them. "It was unavoidable. I hope you enjoyed the comforts of my restaurant."

They assured him that they had and he sat down next to John, opposite Sherlock and Mary and looked expectantly around the table. He seemed nervous and jumpy.

"It is good to know that there is a medical man among us, Doctor Watson." He said to John. "I fear constantly for my heart. My nerves are not what they were, and they were never good. I was a sickly child. The doctors of London were constantly baffled."

"I'm sorry to hear that." John answered shortly. "I believe you have news of Mrs Morstan's husband for us."

Mr Hafeez seemed slightly taken aback by John's directness. He rallied though and smiled over at Mary.

"Mrs Morstan, this must have been a troublesome time for you I am sure. I am glad to know that your friends are so protective of you."

"They are." Sherlock answered him in a warning tone. He covered Mary's hand, resting on the table, with his own.

"But of course." Hassan replied. "But of course." He repeated softly to himself.

"Mr Hafeez!" Sherlock said angrily. "I do believe that you're wasting our time here! And worse than that, you are toying with Mary's emotions. I think we've seen quite enough here." He stood as if to leave. John and Mary moved to follow him.

"Please no!" Please, sirs, Mrs Morstan, I apologise. This is a very painful subject for me! But please stay, and I will do my utmost to control myself and tell you all you wish to know."

Sherlock sat. So did the others.

"Mrs Morstan. " Mr Hafeez continued. "I regret to tell you, your husband, my colleague and friend, is dead."

John found himself momentarily enraged. This was such a cruel and callous way to give this news. He looked across at Mary but she seemed calm and contemplative. She stared at the table cloth and didn't betray her emotions at all. John stole a glance at Sherlock too. His reaction was quite different. There was a look of triumph on his face. He was smiling slightly. John frowned and wondered what on Earth Sherlock knew that he didn't. Mr Hassan was looking from Mary to Sherlock.

"How did it happen?" John blurted out, suddenly. Mr Hafeez looked surprised as if he'd momentarily forgotten he was there at all.

"Good question, John." Sherlock said, traces of his smirk remaining. "I'm also interested to know how the two of you met in the first place. Tell us the full story. Now, please."

Mr Hafeez swallowed. He flagged down a waitress and asked for a glass of water. Finally he began to tell his tale.

"I have lived in London all of my life, though my family come from Kabul. Many of them are still there and I visit as often as I can, though in recent years that has become more difficult.

My older brother, Harras, was born in that city and has returned to live there permanently.

"Mr Holmes, I know what is reported in the British press suggests that the Afghani people are a backward little race and are angry about the current occupation of our country. I'm sure in full respects parts of this are true. There are, however, many bright, intelligent Afghanis who have many friends in both the British and American army. Harras is one of these and one of his closest friends was Nick Morstan. They were very close and Nick enjoyed spending lots of his leave time with my family. When I was with them several months ago I found it was like having two brothers. He was a part of my family.

"My brother's trade is in jewellery. In particular gemstones, but his work with precious metals is also first rate. Several weeks ago he ran into difficulties. He employed a man to carry shipments of gems across the country; it is far safer to employ someone than use one of the many corrupt delivery services. This man, my brother's employee, was married several weeks ago. It was a joyous affair; a beautiful wedding. My brother and my entire family were there for the full three days. Unfortunately this event coincided with an urgent shipment that needed collecting and carrying from the Northern Territory. Knowing the importance of this shipment to my brother's business and out of kindness to him, Mr Morstan offered to collect this shipment himself.

"It was on his return that Nick, my friend, was set upon by bandits. Evil, Taliban persons. He was overcome and was shot and killed on the road."

He looked at Mary. "I'm so sorry for your loss." He told her.

John looked across at her wishing he could show his sympathy in some way. Sherlock was still holding her hand and he was stroking her gently with his thumb. John felt suddenly cold towards him and realising this he felt ashamed. He was quite relieved when Sherlock suggested that they left and he followed them out into the street.

"Mary, I'm so sorry." He told her.

She nodded at him.

"Oh, Nick Morstan isn't dead." Sherlock told them. They both turned to stare at him. "Mr Hafeez was quite clearly lying. Isn't that interesting?" He stared at them gleefully. "Now why would he do that?"

He appeared to notice something in John's angry expression and recalled that Mary was there. "Mary I'm so sorry. Occasionally I allow the intrigue of these cases to overcome my sense of what's decent. This must have been a difficult evening for you. Please allow me to see you home. John, I'll see you back at Baker Street."

John accepted this as a dismissal and he turned on his heel and walked off.

oOo

John was sitting in Sherlock's chair reading a book when Sherlock got back to the flat.

"Is there any tea?" Sherlock asked, throwing himself down on the sofa.

"Sorry, I'm sorted." John answered, indicating the half cup he still had left.

"What an interesting evening!" Sherlock said. "I honestly thought that there would be nothing at all of note. How wrong I was!" He lay down on his back with his knees up, staring at the ceiling. "Have you seen my patches?" He asked John.

"If you thought there was nothing of note, why did you take the case?"John asked him crossly.

"Like I said before; I don't like it when pleasant people are toyed with. I'm not completely devoid of feelings you know."

"Clearly." John answered in an icy tone. "Do I have to remind you that Mary Morstan is a married woman?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, bemused. "Well of course she is. Her husband is a key player in this game; I hardly think his existence would have escaped my notice."

"Well it certainly seemed to have escaped your notice this evening when you were flirting with his wife all night!"

Sherlock sat back up. "I was what?"

"Flirting! All Evening! While I was sat there like a spare wheel." John flushed feeling thoroughly stupid. He found he couldn't stop this conversation now he'd started it. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. It's none of my business." He picked his book back up again.

Sherlock continued to stare at him. "Are you really so noble as to need to protect a woman's honour against me, the predator?"

John continued to stare at his book. He could feel the blush still rising in his face.

"It isn't that, is it?" Sherlock continued. "There's something else." John didn't move. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

John slammed his book down. "Shut up, Sherlock! You don't know anything!"

"John!" Sherlock responded. "I told you before; all I need is the work. All I want is the work. I'm really not interested in having that sort of relationship with anyone; even you!"

"Oh for God's sake!" yelled John, leaping up. "It's always all about you isn't it!" He stormed out the room, ran down the stairs and slammed the front door.

Sherlock sat back on the chair and frowned. He had the feeling he was missing something important but he couldn't quite grasp what that might be.

The doorbell rang. Sherlock spotted John's keys on the table so he got up to let him in.

He was surprised when he opened the door to a complete stranger. That was why he was completely unprepared for the blow from the cricket bat that hit him in the side, winding him and dropping him to the floor.

"Sherlock Holmes!" a voice snarled at him. "Stay the fuck away from my wife!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Sherlock was on all fours on the front steps, trying to catch his breath, when the second blow hit him on the back of the head. He was knocked unconscious instantly. He came round briefly while he was being dragged into the house. The next time he opened his eyes he was alone, slumped on the stairs. He realised that his attacker had simply wanted to get him away from the street where someone passing by might help him. His head ached and his vision was blurred. He could taste blood in his mouth and decided that he should probably not try to move. He tried to call to Mrs Hudson but his breathing was too painful. Instead he reached for his phone.

His eyes weren't working well enough to see either the keyboard or the screen so he relied entirely on touch and memory to dial John's number.

He was immensely relieved when John answered. Less so when he heard the angry tone of John's voice.

"What do you want?" John asked.

"John?" Sherlock managed to get out. "Help me." He swallowed and his vision swam again.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was concerned now. "Where are you?"

"Home." Sherlock said. He put the phone down and closed his eyes.

The next time he opened them John was there. He was on the phone, presumably calling an ambulance. Mrs Hudson was there too, looking tearful and worried. John wasn't though. Sherlock felt safe.

oOo

John handed the phone to Mrs Hudson and turned his full attention to Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he looked at John.

"Well, you've made a right hash of this evening, haven't you?" John asked him with a smile.

Sherlock tried to return the smile but it was too much effort. He closed his eyes again.

"Oh no you don't!" John said, firmly pinching Sherlock in the skin under his eyes.

Sherlock's eyes opened again. He tried to turn his head.

"No, stay still." John told him. "I need you to stay awake though. It's not for long; the ambulance will be here any minute. Can you talk?"

Sherlock tried. "Yes." He mumbled.

"Good. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Nick." He said. Felling this might not be enough; he added "bat." He shut his eyes again.

"No, Sherlock, open your eyes!" John flicked him on the cheekbone. It had the desired effect and Sherlock opened his eyes again. He frowned at John.

"Sorry, but you have to stay awake. Keep talking if you can. What day is it?"

"Dunno."

"Really? You're a genius remember. Do you know who I am?"

"John." He shut his eyes again. John flicked him again.

"Stoppit." Said Sherlock.

"Stop closing your eyes then." John looked towards the open door. "Ambulance is here." He told Sherlock. Sherlock shut his eyes. John flicked him again. "You still can't shut your eyes."

"Sod off." Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah, you should be so lucky."

After that it was all paramedics and doctors and eventually surgery.

oOo

It was an exhausting night for John. He fretted outside the operating theatre for a while and then when Sherlock had been moved from recovery into a regular ward he found he was too wired to sleep. He was then interrupted by a stream of visitors. Mycroft was first when they'd barely been settled in the room.

"How is he?" He demanded of John.

"Fine." John responded automatically, and then cursed himself for the silly response. "Stable anyway. He has three cracked ribs but his lungs are intact. They had to put a drain into his skull to remove the pressure from his brain, but he was absolutely fine in surgery and it when entirely according to plan. They aren't intending to keep him in a coma; he'll be awake in the morning."

Mycroft nodded at him. "He's had brain surgery." He said, sounding hollow.

"Not exactly. They didn't need to enter his brain." John told him calmly.

"It's... his brain." Mycroft said, not accepting the distinction. "Will it be all right?"

John smiled slightly, suddenly understanding Mycroft's concern. "Well, we won't know what damage there is until he's awake if there's any damage to speak of at all. He was conscious almost straight away and able to think and talk rationally. I'm very hopeful that he, and his brain, will be absolutely fine."

Mycroft gave John a look which perhaps suggested that he doubted John's credentials in assessing Sherlock's brain.

"You'll keep me updated?" He asked eventually, but it was more of a command than a question.

"Yes of course." John said. He wondered whether he was likely to be Mycroft's primary source of information on this. On balance, he thought, probably not.

"What pain relief will he be given?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"Morphine initially." John told him. "I'll make sure he's comfortable."

"Yes." Mycroft said slowly. "You'll need to be careful with the morphine."

John jolted in realisation but didn't say anything. Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a good long while before leaving. Before he did so, he turned back to John.

"You understand, don't you? It's his _brain_."

John nodded at him. "I understand, Mycroft." He said.

oOo

He slept fitfully in the visitors chair for an hour before Lestrade burst in.

"What the hell happened?" He demanded.

"I'm not sure." John said, struggling towards wakefulness. "He was attacked by someone with a cricket bat. I don't know why exactly, but if you have someone spare you might want to send them to Mascara restaurant in Charring Cross Road. The owner might know the whereabouts of Sergeant Nick Morstan, recently listed as AWOL from Afghanistan. I think Sherlock was trying to tell me that he was involved."

Lestrade had been staring at Sherlock while John was talking. John wondered if he had been listening at all.

"Why didn't you call me straight away?" He turned to John, looking savage.

"I had other things to concentrate on at the time." He said firmly. He met the Inspector's eyes. It took a moment, but Lestrade eventually nodded at him.

John settled down too. "I'll keep you updated." He said. "It's not nearly as bad as it might have been and I'm very hopeful he'll make a full recovery."

Lestrade nodded. "Thanks. And sorry; it's just a bit of a surprise." He said. "Mascara restaurant, Charring cross road, you say? I'll go there myself right now."

He headed towards the door, then stopped and turned back, looking uncomfortable. "There's something... perhaps you need to know about Sherlock." He told John.

John looked at him patiently.

"It's just... with painkillers..."

"Oh, that. Don't worry. I've got it."

Lestrade nodded again and left.

oOo

Sherlock started stirring at about 5:00 and John was awake and alert again before he opened his eyes.

"Good morning." John said cheerfully.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before responding. "Is it? Funny definition of 'good' you've got."

John smiled. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked.

"Yes." Responded Sherlock.

"And do you remember what day it is yet?"

"No. Firstly it's not important information and secondly, I have no way of knowing how long I've been unconscious."

"Really? You can't work it out?" John asked with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock huffed. He did, however, put his hand to his face. "Not long." He said. "You wouldn't have bothered to shave me. I've been unconscious for less than twelve hours."

"Good." John said. "Mycroft will be relieved anyway. He was particularly worried about your brain."

"Well, it's the best bit of me really isn't it?" He smiled then winced.

"Where's the pain?" John asked him. "Be as specific as you can be."

Sherlock took a moment to consider this. "Mostly head. Slightly when I breathe too, but mostly head. Specifically; all of it."

John nodded. A thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock's forehead let him to believe that Sherlock wasn't exaggerating. "I'll get them to top you up with something." He told him, getting up.

"John!" Sherlock called to him before he could leave. "I need a favour. With the painkillers."

"It's OK, Sherlock, we will be very careful but right now you need the morphine."

"Thank you." Sherlock replied.

oOo

When Sherlock was more comfortable he fell asleep again for several hours. John napped, fidgeted and got bored. He was just thinking he might run back to the flat for supplies when there was another visitor. He was surprised to see Mary Morstan in the doorway.

She gasped and paled as she took in Sherlock's condition.

"It's OK." John told her quickly. It looks a lot worse than it is."

"What happened?" She asked him. "I went to Baker Street and your landlady told me you were both here."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Hello Mary!" He said. His voice was slow and slurred. "Hi Mary!" He said. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary... how _does_ your garden grow..."

John looked at Mary. "I think that the morphine might have..."

He was interrupted by Sherlock. "I met your husband yesterday." He said. "He's a delight!"

Mary looked at John. "Nick did this?" She asked. She sat heavily on a chair.

"He's quite handy with a cricket bat." Sherlock drawled at her. "It was a ... thing. We were being watched at the ... food place. Knew we were. Didn't know why though. That's interesting, isn't it? I always get the love stuff wrong. Bit clueless there really, which is weird because on everything else, I'm a fucking genius. Except planet stuff. And days. With everything else though; genius."

Mary and John stared at him for a while. He appeared to have finished and suddenly shut his eyes and started snoring lightly.

Mary turned to John with a frown. "So he was testing me? He wanted to see if I was seeing someone else?"

"I guess so." John responded. He looked at Mary who was biting her lip. "This isn't your fault." He told her steadily.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open again. "Oh! Hello Mary!" He grinned at her. "Your husband's a _delight_! Met him yesterday."

"Sherlock?" Said John, concerned.

"Wait, I said that already didn't I?" Sherlock went on. His brow furrowed. "There was something else ... what was it... Oh yes; Mary your husband is vile but you are not. You should divorce him and marry someone much nicer." He went quiet again.

"I'm really sorry." John told her. "It's morphine; if he wasn't off his face he'd be...well, equally insensitive but less obvious."

"I know!" Sherlock suddenly blurted out. "Divorce Nick and marry John!" He looked at Mary in an unfocussed fashion and in a loud stage whisper went on. "John fancies the pants off you!" He started giggling. "Probably quite literally!" He giggled some more and lay back on his bed. He stretched, comfortably, for a moment. "God I love morphine." He concluded.

"Maybe I'd better go." Mary said, standing up and looking embarrassed.

"Yes." John agreed. "I'm really sorry; it's..."

"The morphine. I know." Mary said. "He's not wrong about Nick though. I've been wondering when the final straw would come for a while. I kept hoping he'd go back to how he used to be, well, how I thought he could be anyway, but he kept getting worse. I never thought he'd do something like this though."

John walked with her into the corridor.

"I'm sorry." He said again, feeling useless. "Wait a minute; was there something you needed from Sherlock?"

She looked at him confused.

"You came round to the flat this morning." John reminded her.

"Oh, well, under the circumstances it seems a bit..."

"No," John assured her. "If there's something more to do with the case, Sherlock would want to know."

Her resolve weakened. "When I woke up this morning I found this on my table."

She handed him a small, black box. He opened it to find a large and spectacular ruby.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

John stood looking at the ruby, shocked. He knew he was no expert in gemstones but it looked both impressive and expensive. After a minute or two, he realised he must look like a right prat, so he shook himself and handed it back to Mary. She was reluctant to take it from him.

"Any idea about who put it there?" John asked.

Mary shook her head. "I hadn't noticed the lock being forced when I checked this morning though."

"Who has a key?" John asked her.

"Nick." She said quietly. She didn't seem to want to meet his eyes.

John nodded slowly. "Are you sure it was left there overnight?" He asked her. "Are you sure it wasn't there when you got home yesterday evening?"

"I don't think so," She admitted, "but I wasn't really thinking straight when I got home; I might not have noticed."

"Right." John said quietly. "Did Sherlock go in with you? When you got back to the flat?"

"Oh, yes. Not for long though."

"But he went into where the table was?"

Mary nodded. John darted into Sherlock's room, with Mary right behind him. Sherlock was sound asleep, snoring calmly.

"Don't wake him up." Mary whispered. They went outside again. "Would he remember anyway? He was beaten around the head straight afterwards."

"He'd remember." John said with certainty. "Look, do you have someone you can stay with tonight?"

Mary thought, but shook her head. "Look, don't worry about me." She said. "I'll be fine."

"You'll be alone." John stated. "Alone isn't particularly good in a case where someone's been inside your flat, without your permission, while you were sleeping. Are you absolutely sure there's no-one you could stay with?"

She shook her head again, clearly fighting tears.

"Mrs Hudson." John suddenly said. Mary looked blankly at him so he explained. "Mrs Hudson; she has a spare room, I'll be upstairs overnight, and I can contact the police to take a look around your flat and to keep an eye on Baker Street while you're there."

Mary frowned. "Doctor Watson, I really don't think this is necessary..."

"It's John, please, and while I don't want you to be anxious, I don't like the idea of you being on your own tonight. Not when we don't know exactly where your husband is, but his last known action was to beat Sherlock senseless."

She nodded slowly and sighed, as if she was too tired to argue any more. "Thank you." She said.

"I'll come back to your place with you so you can pick up some things." He told her.

She followed him downstairs and let him hail a cab for them both.

A few minutes later, settled in the cab she seemed to be calmer, and having resigned herself to the situation she became more cheerful.

"It's very strange isn't it?" She said to him. "I wake up with a massive ruby on my dining table, and all I can think is how little I want it. I imagine that other people would be delighted by such a gift."

John smiled at her, admiring her resilience. "Well, I personally think it's a splendid idea to look at gift horses in the mouth. You don't want to suddenly get on and find you've been given the bugger that's skittish as hell and fed up on... well, something that would make a horse jumpy."

She gave a small chuckle, and he smiled.

"John..." She said tentatively. He looked calmly at her and waited for her to continue. "I'm trying to make sense of it all. Did Nick attack Sherlock because he thought I was seeing him?"

"I think that's what Sherlock thinks." John replied. "From what little he's said about it anyway. And from what little of that wasn't drug fuelled nonsense."

"But it doesn't make sense." Mary protested. "Nick knows that you're gay, so surely he knows that Sherlock is too!"

John choked. "Um, no, Mary. No, I'm not gay. Sherlock isn't my boyfriend."

"Oh!" Mary said, her eyes widening. She blushed furiously. "Oh... I'm really sorry."

"No, I'm not offended, I'm just not gay." He smiled at her. "Why did Nick think I was?"

"I don't know, he just said you were, when you were treating him last year." She looked embarrassed. "He said you were a sound bloke... for..."

"For a queer." John finished for her. "I see."

Mary shut her eyes tightly and looked anguished. "Oh, God. He's such a shit isn't he?" She shook her head and John noticed she was close to crying again.

"You're not responsible for him." He told her gently. "But for what it's worth I agree. I think he's not a very nice man. I'm not entirely sure what you saw in him."

Mary didn't answer, and John didn't push her. They spent the rest of the cab ride in silence.

When they got to the flat, John insisted Mary stood back while he checked the lock. He couldn't see any signs of a forced entry either, but he had to admit to himself that he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking for. He wished Sherlock was here.

He took the keys from Mary and tentatively opened the door while she waited just behind him. Opening it slowly he wished he had both Sherlock and his gun with him. Mary waited in the hallway while he had a quick scout round the rest of the flat.

"There's no-one here." He told her. "But this was on the table." He handed her another jewellery box.

She opened it slowly, and inside there was an emerald. She sighed and leant against the wall, looking sad and tired.

"Pick up some things." John told her calmly. "Bring enough for the next few days. I'm going to contact some friends in the police and see what we can do about having the flat watched."

Mary wasted no time in picking up enough clothes and toiletries to last for a few days. She followed John silently out to the street and waited while they hailed another cab. John found he had nothing to say while they drove back to Baker Street. He occasionally looked over at Mary and smiled, encouragingly, but eventually realised he was looking a bit manic, so stopped.

When he knocked, Mrs Hudson opened her flat door in a panic.

"John! How is he? Is he going to live?" She looked distressed and alarmed, and looked like she hadn't had any sleep. John suddenly felt horribly guilty that he hadn't thought to contact her to update her on Sherlock.

"He's fine, Mrs Hudson." He told her gently. "He's certainly doing as well as can be expected. He's in pain, he'll be in hospital for a few days, but it's looking like he'll make a full recovery." He smiled as he watched her slowly relax.

"Oh what a palaver." She said to him. "That boy! He's always running around, getting into all sorts of mischief. I don't know what I'm going to do with him!"

John smiled again. "Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry to ask, but we need, Sherlock and I need a favour from you."

"Of course, Dear. Anything." Mrs Hudson answered immediately.

"This is Mary." He said to her, and he watched her take in John's companion. "She can't stay by herself at the moment. Is there any chance she can use your spare room?"

"Of course!" Mrs Hudson said immediately.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson. You're a star." He said, smiling at her. He led her slightly away. "Look, Mary's been through the wringer of late; do you think you might find a way to cheer her up a bit?"

"Of course, poor lamb. You come along in here, Dearie, and I'll put the kettle on."

John smiled, feeling pleased that he'd given Mrs Hudson a distraction, and Mary a caring companion. Mary went in and he closed the flat door behind them. He lent against the wall feeling exhausted. He shook himself awake again, knowing he had more to do and ran up to his flat.

Lestrade wasn't answering his phone, but John was able to get hold of Donovan. He was disappointed to learn that there simply wasn't enough police resources to have someone watching an empty flat. She did assure him that they would send someone round to interview Mary the next day, and that they would check her flat for signs of forced entry.

"Thank you." John said to her, knowing that this was probably as much as they could expect.

"It's OK. Listen, is Sherlock going to be OK?" She asked him. "Greg said he was pretty beaten pretty bad."

"Yes, we think he's going to be fine. He'll need to be in hospital a while yet, but he should make a complete recovery."

"Good." She said.

"I'll let him know you send your regards." John said with a smile.

"Look, I don't want him dead." Sally told him. "Incarcerated; maybe. A long way away from where I am; definitely. But I don't want him dead."

"OK." John said. "I'll just tell him you said hi."

"All right." She told him. "Bye."

John sat back on the sofa and checked his watch. He still had a couple of hours before visiting time was over, and he did want to go in and check on Sherlock. He sat there for a moment, mustering enough energy to go and get a much needed shower. He made the mistake of closing his eyes for a second and was asleep instantly.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

John crept towards wakefulness with a groan. His neck and shoulder were stiff and the soft leather of the sofa was stuck to his cheek, he slowly manoeuvred himself to an upright position keeping his eyes closed. He rubbed his face, and finally opened his eyes. Bright daylight was streaming in through the window.

"Good morning." Mary said from where she was stood just in front of him. "Sorry; I didn't know whether I should wake you or not, but your breakfast's getting cold."

He stared at her blankly, waiting for his brain to wake up too. "Morning. Breakfast?" he said with a frown. "What time is it?" he glanced at the clock which was showing the time as 7:30. "Christ, I slept all night! I was supposed to get back to the hospital yesterday! He's going to kill me." He said with a groan.

He stood up, as if to rush out of the door, but Mary blocked his path.

"John, you really should eat something." She spoke in a calm but authoritative voice. "You barely ate yesterday, there will be nothing at the hospital and you're about to spend the day rushing around after Sherlock. You need to eat."

John looked at the tray she was carrying, she, or Mrs Hudson, bless her, had cooked up a mountain of bacon, sausages, eggs, mushrooms and toast. Just looking at it made him salivate. The smell invading his nostrils made his stomach rumble.

He looked at her with a smile. "You make a lot of sense." He said to her, and he took the tray. He quickly looked up at her. "Do you want half? This is far too much for me."

"No, I've already eaten. I'll make you a cup of tea, shall I?"

"Thank you, Mary. I can manage though."

"No, it's no trouble at all. It really feels like the least I could do."

John sat down and set about his breakfast. When she put a cup of tea down on the coffee table, John felt a slight shudder of delight over the feeling of being looked after for a change.

Mary appeared to be lingering.

"Did you want something? A cup of tea or…" John asked her.

Mary shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Mrs Hudson's given me more tea than I think a whole legion could consume." She smiled at him. "I just wanted to say thank you. Again. Properly." She perched on the arm of the armchair, opposite him and smiled.

John swallowed his mouthful. "It's fine." He said, returning her smile. "It's what we do." He shrugged, though part of him wondered whether he would be taking such care of another client.

"Yes, I suppose it is what you do. You and Sherlock." She looked embarrassed. "Once again, I'm really sorry for my… assumption."

"It's fine." John assured her. "It's not the first time people have made that assumption. It seems to be a bit of an occupational hazard to be honest."

She snorted. "Yes. Still; it seems quite obvious now that you're not gay."

John blushed slightly and felt he would quite like to change the subject.

Unfortunately, Mary persisted. "And Sherlock is…" She left the question hanging.

John thought for a moment. "Sherlock is extraordinary." He said firmly. "And his sexuality is utterly irrelevant."

Mary blushed now. "Sorry; I didn't mean… I wasn't judging."

John felt cross with himself for making her so flustered. "No, I'm sorry; I didn't intend that to sound as harsh as it did. But that's what it is I'm afraid. I can't tell you more than that. Sherlock is extraordinary and his sexuality is irrelevant, certainly to him at any rate. And he's my friend, and right now he's injured, so I feel the need to… protect him a bit. I don't want him hurt. Well, not more hurt." He looked at her. "Do you see what I mean?"

She nodded quickly. "Of course." She gave him a look. "Though if it makes you feel any better, I'm really not interested in Sherlock."

"No, no, I wasn't saying that you would..." He didn't quite know what he was saying any more.

Mary glanced down at John's empty plate. "So much for it being too much for you." She said with a grin.

"Sorry." John said. "I think I got used to eating quickly when I was abroad. You could never be quite sure when you'd next get chance to eat. Thinking about it it's much the same working with Sherlock."

"It's fine." She told him. "I've eaten on my own for most meals of my adult life. It's quite nice watching someone eat. Especially when you know they're hungry."

John frowned suddenly. "You're not wearing your wedding ring." He said.

"No. No, I'm going to see a family solicitor today. I'm going to file for divorce." She looked pained.

"I'm sorry." He said, softly.

"Yeah. Half of me thinks 'I'm not' and the other half thinks 'me too'. I'm… disappointed. But I know it's the right thing to do." She looked up and shook herself back into a smile. "I'll take your plate away."

"Yeah, it's one thing watching me eat but you really don't want to watch me shower." John said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he winced and went very red.

"Um, OK." Mary said in quite a high-pitched voice. John noticed she was also blushing scarlet as she fled from the room.

He allowed himself two seconds of wishing the ground would just swallow him, and then he went to shower.

oOo

It was apparent as soon as he got into the ward, that something was wrong. He stepped up his pace and went instantly to talk to Mycroft who was outside Sherlock's room.

"What are you doing here?" John asked him. "Has something gone wrong?"

"Sherlock hasn't had a good night." Mycroft told him. John's heart sank. Mycroft gave him a meaningful look and continued. "He pulled his IV out twice and they haven't managed to get it back in again. He appears to have a problem with the morphine. They threatened to restrain him."

John frowned. "I told him we'd be careful."

"You weren't here." Mycroft said.

John felt a stab of guilt. "I meant to be; I fell asleep. Look, when I left he was telling me he was fine. He was... relaxed."

Mycroft gave him a dismissive look. "Clearly he changed his mind. When you weren't here." He said pointedly.

"I'm not his personal physician!" John said crossly, "I can't be here all the time! Besides, you're in the corridor; why aren't you in there?"

Mycroft flinched. "I seemed to be making him agitated. "The nurses have been in and out, but he won't let them touch him."

John sighed, but didn't waste any more time on conversation, but went into Sherlock's room. Mycroft followed him. Sherlock was looking strangely small and fragile. He was still, lying on his side with his eyes closed, the machines around the bed were disconnected and silent.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. "Have you come to take me home?" He asked in a weak voice.

John smiled. "No, Sherlock; I don't think you're in any fit state to leave the hospital yet." He said gently.

"Then you're no use to me. Get out!" Sherlock snarled. "I don't want him here either!"

John turned to look at Mycroft who just shrugged and left. John turned back to Sherlock. He pushed Sherlock's hair up slightly so he could check on his bandage. He was pleased that it seemed to be perfectly intact, and more pleased that Sherlock allowed him to examine him.

Sherlock slowly rolled onto his back and allowed John to examine his arm. There were two large bruises over the cannula sites.

"What happened here?" John asked him. "Mycroft said you took exception to your morphine. I thought morphine was your best friend yesterday."

"I didn't want it." Sherlock snapped, distressed. "I told you. I _told_ you I needed help."

"I know, Sherlock, and you were on a measured dose. I was being careful."

"You weren't here!" Sherlock said. "It was awful; it made me stupid. It was like thinking through treacle."

"OK, all right." John said, calmly. "But I imagine that thinking while you're in pain isn't going swimmingly. You need pain relief."

"I don't want it." Sherlock virtually wailed, "I just want to go home."

"Sherlock, calm down." John told him. "You're in pain; I can help with that..."

"No." Sherlock told him. "Just help me up."

"No." John told him. "Sherlock, you need to stay here, and you need to lie down."

"Fine." Sherlock snapped. "I'll do it myself if my so called _friend_ won't help me."

Sherlock pushed himself up from the bed and dropped his legs over the side. He swayed slightly and John caught him by the upper arm, and held him up. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to make no further move to leave.

"John." He whispered. "I don't feel very well."

"No." John said. "I don't imagine you do."

"John!" Sherlock whispered, alarmed.

John handed him an emesis bowl, but Sherlock shook his head and batted it away. A second later he retched and vomited while John stopped him from falling off the bed.

"OK, Sherlock, can you sit back for me?" John asked him and Sherlock compliantly let him guide him back towards the pillow. "Right, lie still for a minute. Shut your eyes." John told him. Sherlock obeyed while John threw the bowl in the human waste bin and straightened Sherlock's blankets.

"Has the room stopped spinning yet?" John asked.

"A bit." Sherlock answered. He wiped tears from his eyes and John gave him water to drink.

"Now listen to me, Sherlock." John said, quietly and calmly. "I am your friend, and I would like nothing more than to take you home right now. But I'm also a doctor. I know that the room's spinning because the area of your brain that was injured is the part that interprets what your eyes are seeing and right now it's frankly not up to the job, so you need to lie still while it heals. I know this to be the case, Sherlock because I'm a doctor, and a damned good one, so the sooner you start accepting my word as gospel, the quicker you're going to get better. OK?"

Sherlock was very quiet for a moment. Then without opening his eyes, he whispered. "OK."

"Good." John smiled. "I'd like to re-cannulate you. Are you OK with that?"

"Do I have to have morphine?"

John looked at him and considered. "I'd like to give you something. You'll get better quicker if you're calmer and in less pain." He sighed. "But you're not going to be calm if you can't think, so we'll try something else. I still need to put a cannula in though. I don't want you dehydrating, and I'm going to put your monitor back on."

"OK." Sherlock said quietly.

"Sherlock... The pain stuff. You've never been addicted to pain medication have you?" John asked him.

"No." Sherlock said quietly. "Not my thing really. I worry, because I don't know that I won't in the future, but so far no. It's like thinking through treacle." He said again. "Nasty stuff. Maybe I'll want to think that slowly one day. It certainly felt nice at first. Then I panicked that I'd never come back."

John nodded. "OK. Well, we'll keep an eye on it. But you have to trust me a bit."

"I do." Sherlock said.

John left the room to go and make peace with the medical staff on the ward and with the help from the nurses and the sign off from the doctors they were able to get Sherlock back to a vaguely comfortable state.

Sherlock slept for a few hours, and woke seeming brighter and more alert.

"Why was Mary here?" He suddenly asked.

"What?" John responded. "Oh, that. She came to the flat to consult with you. She woke up and someone had been in her flat and left a massive ruby. When we got back there to pick up some clothes for her there was an emerald as well."

"Get clothes for her? What had happened to her clothes?"

"Oh, nothing. I thought she'd be better off staying with Mrs Hudson if her husband was going to turn up at her flat whenever he wanted." John told him.

"Her husband?" Sherlock said with a frown. "What makes you think it was him?"

John frowned and thought for a moment. "Well, who else could it be?" John asked. "It didn't seem like her flat was broken into and he has a key. And we know he's connected to jewels of that type."

"Keys can be given to anyone, John." Sherlock told him sternly. "The husband's particularly unlikely; we know he thinks she's having an affair with me, so why would he break into her flat to give her expensive gifts without even talking to her?"

John thought about this. "I don't know." He said. "Who else then?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know, but you should go and talk to Lestrade. He's not exactly genius material, but he does sometimes get some stuff right. We never know, we might get lucky."

"OK." John said. "Well, I'll go this afternoon. I'll only be away an hour."

"You should probably check in on Mary too." Sherlock told him. "You might want to let her know she's perfectly safe to go home."

"Hmmm." John said.

Sherlock turned to look at him, then waited for his vision to refocus. "Or it might be better if she was somewhere close by for the time being. Mrs Hudson won't mind an extra couple of days."

"Hmmm." John said again.

"John..." Sherlock started. "Is it possible I told Mary that you fancied the pants off her?"

John blushed at the memory. "Yes. A little bit."

"Oh. Sorry." Sherlock said.

"Oh, it's OK. I vaguely suggested that she'd like to watch me shower. I suspect that from here on we'll only have contact via Mrs Hudson. Also, she is still married so it's all a bit academic."

"Mmm." Sherlock said. "Well, we'll see."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

John left Sherlock awake, alert and becoming slightly obnoxious through boredom. He really wanted to head straight home and perhaps eat some more food prepared for him by someone else, but he had promised Sherlock he would go straight to Lestrade, and so he trudged up the steps to Scotland Yard wondering what on Earth he was supposed to be discussing with the Detective Inspector. His own preference was to see if any headway had been made on the hunt for Nick Morstan. Sherlock was insistent that he needed to take Lestrade to Mary's flat to look for clues regarding her mystery benefactor.

He walked straight through to Lestrade's office and was instantly shown in.

"Is he OK?" Lestrade asked.

"He's getting there," John told him. He was about to elaborate when his phone rang. "Sorry," he muttered, taking it from his pocket. It was an unknown number but he answered it with a "Hello?"

"Hello, it's me," said Sherlock's voice, "put me on speaker."

"What? What are you doing? You're supposed to be resting."

"And I am resting. I'm lying in my hospital bed, not moving and my eyes are closed. Now put me on speaker."

John looked at his phone, and then with a sigh, he switched it to speaker. "It's Sherlock," he said.

"Did you need something, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, towards the phone.

"No. Where are you?" Sherlock asked.

They looked at each other. "We're in Greg's office." John said.

"Well why are you still there?" Sherlock demanded. "Why haven't you already gone to Mary's flat?"

"I've just got here, Sherlock!" John protested.

"Fine! Well, let's get going now." Sherlock said. "I'd quite like John back before visiting hours end."

They stared at the phone. "You want to come with us, to Mary's flat, via phone conference?" Lestrade clarified.

"Is that not obvious?"

"Sherlock, you're supposed to be resting." John said again.

"And I'm not moving," Sherlock reiterated. "I'm staying completely still. My body might need rest but my brain needs activity. Now get a move on."

John picked up the phone. "OK, well, we'll call you when we get there," he said.

"No, don't hang up!" Sherlock said. "One of you might say something interesting in the cab. It has to happen sooner or later and I don't want to miss it."

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John said and he hung up.

oOo

Lestrade drove John back to Baker Street and on the way John gave him a more detailed explanation of what had happened with regards to Mary Morstan and the eventful trip to Mascara restaurant.

"So the husband thought Sherlock was in some kind of relationship with his wife?" Lestrade summarised.

"Well that's Sherlock's theory anyway."

"Is the husband completely stupid? I mean, it's _Sherlock._ Most of us are completely amazed that you've stuck around so long. To imagine him in a relationship with a _normal_ person... well, it's just... insane."

"Yeah, thanks for that," John replied. "So have you been able to get any information from Mr Hafeez?"

"No, none. He didn't want to speak without his solicitor, he wouldn't answer any questions, and we had nothing to charge him with. I've managed to put a bit of extra presence opposite the restaurant, but times are hard, John, and we don't have much man-power to spare."

"No, I guess there's not. Well, Sherlock is under the impression that Mary herself is fairly safe so though there's this mystery with the gemstones going on, there's probably not that much need for police involvement." He sighed. "Thank you, for taking the time out for this." His phone rang, and the same landline number from earlier popped up on the screen. John sighed again as he answered it.

"Who in their right mind gave you a phone in your room?" He asked.

"Nurse Celia. I like Nurse Celia. She has a very nice bedside manner. Are you at the flat yet? Put me on speakerphone."

John did so. "No, we're not at the flat. We have to go to Baker Street to get the keys from Mary."

"Ah yes, the lovely Mary. John likes her, Lestrade."

"So?" Lestrade asked, nonplussed.

"So, you'll need to keep an eye on him. If Nick Morstan gets wind of it, our John might be in a spot of trouble."

"Nick Morstan thinks I'm gay." John pointed out.

"Really?" Sherlock asked. "Why does he think that?"

"I don't know; it's a mystery." John snapped. "Why don't we just call you back when we get to the flat?"

"This is more fun." Sherlock said. "Lestrade, is John blushing, or is he just looking stressed."

Lestrade glanced at him. "Stressed I think."

"Is he biting his left thumb-nail?" Sherlock asked.

"He was," Lestrade answered. "He's stopped now."

"Do you two mind? I am sat right here?"

"You could just hang up." Lestrade pointed out.

"Bet he won't though." Sherlock responded.

John instantly did.

His phone rang again and he answered straight to speakerphone. As soon as Sherlock was connected, he started singing.

"John and Mary, sitting in a tree..."

"Sherlock! For God's sake, what's _wrong _with you?" John shouted, while Lestrade laughed. "Are you back on the morphine?"

"No, I'm just _bored_! Bored, bored, bored, bored... ow."

"What have you done?" John asked him.

"Nothing." Sherlock said, sounding more subdued. "Just a headache, that's all. Stupid, inefficient body!"

"Yeah, the whole 'can't withstand cricket bats' thing is definitely a design flaw," John told him. "Well, we're here now so lie still and shut your eyes for a bit while I get Mary's keys." He slipped his phone into his pocket as Lestrade pulled in.

Mrs Hudson opened the door to his knock and instantly asked after Sherlock.

"He's fine, Mrs Hudson. He just needs to rest and he'll be back up on his feet in no time."

"Oh that's good. That poor dear boy. I've made him some soup, will you take it in to him?"

"Of course I will."

"And there's a bag of bits and pieces for him too."

"Mrs Hudson, he doesn't deserve you." John told her with a smile, taking the bag. "Is Mary here?"

"Yes, but I don't think she wants to come out of her room." Mrs Hudson told him in a whisper. "I'll see if she'll see you shall I?"

As she walked off, John found his heart racing slightly. He knew Sherlock was right. He did like Mary. He also knew that she was married or at best just ending a troubled marriage and this would be a really problematic time for her to think of starting a new relationship. He really wished he was the sort of person who didn't care about stuff like that. He also wished his heart didn't skip a beat every time she appeared, the way it did now.

She'd clearly been crying for a while, but she tried to give him a smile anyway.

"Are you OK?" he instantly asked, even though it was clear she was not.

"Yes. No. Sorry." She said. "It was the solicitors. I hadn't expected it to be so... easy. They talked to me as if my marriage ending was an every-day event." She laughed in a humourless fashion. "I suppose for them it is." She sat down on the stairs, looking tired.

"I'm sorry, Mary." John said again. He was surprised that he actually _was_ sorry. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She wiped her eyes on her hand. "Actually, John, there is." She looked at him directly. "Could you take care of these? I don't want to look at them."

She handed across the two jewellery boxes. John frowned, not really sure what he was supposed to do with them.

"Of course," he said, "I'm happy to look after them for you..." he took them and put them in his pocket.

"Are you around this evening?" Mary asked him. "I know you might have to be at the hospital, but it would be really nice to sit down and have a meal with someone. I can't promise to be good company though, so you should feel free to say no."

"He'd love to." A voice called from his pocket.

Mary's eyebrows shot up.

"God! Shit! Sorry! I'd forgotten he was there!" John blushed furiously as he scrambled for his phone and disconnected the call.

"You two have a very... interesting relationship don't you." She said, laughing.

"Yes, that's one way of describing it." John agreed.

"So... dinner?" Mary asked again.

"I'd love to. And I can give you any updates on the case."

"Oh, yes. The case." Mary smiled and tucked her hair behind her ears.

A car horn sounded from the street.

"Oh, sorry," John said, blushing again, "I'm supposed to be asking for your keys. Sherlock wants us to go and have another look at your flat."

She fished her keys out of her pocket and handed them over.

"He says you're probably safe enough to go home afterwards," John pointed out, feeling wretched as he did so. "If you want to," he added.

She just nodded and he picked up the bag for Sherlock and darted back out to the street.

"Sorry," he said to Lestrade as he got back into the car. He gave Mary's address and they sat in companionable silence was they drove there.

oOo

When they reached Mary's flat, John called Sherlock's hospital phone.

"How's the headache?" John asked him.

"It's lovely. It's delightful. It's the nicest headache I've ever had," Sherlock told him.

"Well then you should rest, and Greg and I will call you when..."

"No! I don't need to rest, I need to work!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm fine, John. There's nothing wrong me with me that wouldn't be fixed by me getting out of here and going back to work."

John sighed, and in his mind he weighed up the benefit of trying to keep Sherlock in something close to a good humour, against him being forced to rest. He decided the former just about outweighed the latter.

"Fine. OK," he said, and switched him back to speakerphone.

"Where are you? Are you inside the flat yet?" Sherlock asked.

"No, we're outside still," John answered.

"Good, tell me about the lock."

They looked at each other. "It's a standard Yale lock..." Lestrade started.

"Yes, I remember that," Sherlock snapped. "How does the lock look to you? Is it scratched? Is it damaged?"

"No," John replied, "it's perfectly clean."

"Really? It's completely and utterly, straight out of the box pristine? Mary Morstan has never, ever had her key slip in her hand in the three years she's been living in that flat?"

John looked again. "No, well, it has a couple small, very faint scratches. Nothing that looks like any real pressure was put on though."

"Right, so whenever you say 'perfectly clean', should I assume you mean 'apart from a couple of small, faint scratches'?" Sherlock snapped at him.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but John felt slightly guilty.

"Sorry," John said, "I'll try harder. Can we go in yet?"

"Please do," Sherlock responded, graciously.

John unlocked the door and they made their way down the hallway and into the living room.

"Someone's been in here." Lestrade said as they looked around the room.

"How can you tell?" Sherlock asked.

"I can tell because I'm a trained police officer, Sherlock," Lestrade answered.

"No, I mean, what specifically have you seen?"

"Well there a broken vase on the floor, there's broken china everywhere and I'm guessing John didn't leave it like that yesterday."

John shook his head.

"You know I can't see you when you shake your head," Sherlock said.

"Sorry."

"Has anything been taken that you can see?"

John glanced around. The TV, DVD player and stereo were all present. The DVDs on the shelves hadn't been taken, and he noticed a laptop bag by an armchair and quickly lifting it he could tell that the laptop was still in it.

"No, not that I can see," he told Sherlock.

"There's a picture missing," Lestrade suddenly said.

John went over to where he was looking at a wall shelf.

"He's right," he said, "there's definitely something missing, there's a space."

"Do you remember what picture was there?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I wasn't really paying attention to the pictures yesterday."

"Well what's still there?" Sherlock said, sounding impatient.

"Er, the one with... I think it must be grandparents, one with I'm assuming her parents, one of Nick in uniform. The missing one was between the grandparents and the parents."

"It was a wedding picture," Sherlock filled in, "the only picture with Mary in it. Interesting. Maybe you should keep her at the flat a while longer."

"You don't think she's safe?" John asked him.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. There was a pause. "I think you'll find there's another jewel on the table," he said.

Lestrade picked it up. "Yep," he called towards the phone.

"How did you know that?" John asked him with a frown.

"It's obvious, isn't it? God I'm smarter than the two of you put together and I've got a hole in my head! No-one broke in just to steal a photo; if nothing else was taken, then something was left. It's not like he hasn't done this before, for heaven's sake, would you two wake up a bit!" he snapped while Lestrade looked cross and John looked ashamed. " What's in it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's a... the green ones are emeralds, right?"

John could almost hear Sherlock's eyes rolling. "Yes, Lestrade, the green ones are emeralds. John, the broken vase – is it the white one with the pink flowers?"

John looked down at the fragments of china. "Yes. How did you know that?" he asked, frowning.

"Because it was on the mantelpiece, furthest from the table. Look around on the floor. There's another box somewhere. Someone threw it and it hit the vase hard, breaking it."

John dropped to his knees. He soon found what he was looking for; the small box had bounced or rolled to the corner next to the armchair.

"I've got it!" he called.

"What's in it?" Sherlock demanded.

John opened it. "It's a pearl."

"That's a round white one, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Right, pack up and bring them here."

They frowned at each other.

"That's it?" Lestrade asked, "you don't want us to check the other rooms while where here?"

Sherlock sighed. "You can do what you want, but I want John back," he said, dismissively. He disconnected the call.

John and Lestrade looked at each other for a moment. They ended up both quickly checking the rest of the flat anyway, but as Sherlock had predicted, there was no evidence that anyone had been anywhere but the living room.

"Right, we'd better not keep his majesty waiting any longer," Lestrade said to John, "I'll drop you off at the hospital."

They locked the flat up and left.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

John was dropped off outside the main hospital building, and he got into the lift wondering if he'd be able to quickly buy a sandwich before going to see Sherlock. He decided against. Sherlock would _know_.

He knocked on the room door and went straight in. Sherlock was sitting forward in his bed while Doctor Martin and Nurse Celia were either side of him, examining his head wound.

"Oh! Sorry!" John said, turning to leave again.

"No, stay." Sherlock said in a low, croaky whisper.

John turned again, dropped the bag and his jacket down on the visitors chair and peered at Sherlock. He was looking grey, and though he was staying very still, he was gripping handfuls of his blanket very tightly. There was a bowl on the bed for him, but it was, as yet, unused.

"Did you refuse pain relief again?" John asked him.

"No." Sherlock whispered.

John rubbed his Sherlock's arm. "It'll be done soon," he told him.

"I've given him a local anaesthetic," Doctor Martin informed John, "but he only agreed to ibuprofen beforehand."

"You have to stop doing that, Sherlock, you need pain relief," John chided him gently. Sherlock grunted in response.

"I'm taking the drain out," Doctor Martin said. "If you want, you can take over from Celia."

"Is that OK with you, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

John grabbed a pair of gloves from a box on the wall and Celia moved out of the way so that he could position himself behind Sherlock's head. He kept a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he watched Doctor Martin remove the drain and give a quick but thoroughly examination of Sherlock's skull. John couldn't resist looking too.

"You've got a lovely skull, Sherlock." He told him.

Sherlock's attempt at a laugh was more of a "huh."

"Pity you left it at home on the mantelpiece."

This got a whole snort before Sherlock whimpered and gripped the bedclothes more tightly.

"All right?" John asked him, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze.

"Mm."

"Right; I'm going to stitch you now, Sherlock," the doctor told him, "and then we can just leave this with a standard dressing rather than wrapping you round your head. That'll probably feel a lot better. Can you hold his head steady Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock mumbled something.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Then can I go home?" he repeated in a low voice.

Doctor Martin looked across at John. "I'd prefer he stayed for a few days."

"Yes, me too." John quickly agreed.

"'m fine." Sherlock muttered.

"OK, let's finish this, then we can talk about it," John told him.

He watched as Doctor Martin quickly put a couple of stitches in the back of Sherlock's head, then he handed him some dressings. Sherlock's head looked strange, with a large chunk shaved bare among his dark curls. His face was showing several days worth of beard now too, and it showed up dark black against his pale skin. John knew how vain Sherlock was capable of being and wondered if he should have brought a razor for him.

They were finished at last and John guided him backwards until he was lying down again. Doctor Martin left them alone.

"You OK?" John asked him.

Sherlock gave a barely perceivable nod and his jaw was set and his nostrils flared. He was breathing in a steady, controlled way and didn't open his eyes. He put a hand up to his head, investigating what everything felt like without the heavy dressing being on. He frowned when he reached the shaved section, but didn't say anything.

John watched him for a moment. "You can take something stronger than Ibuprofen, you know," he told him.

"Paracetamol?"

John smiled. "Well, you should at least ask for something to help you sleep. You're going to be in too much pain otherwise."

"I want to go home. You could watch me there as well as they can here."

"Perhaps, but I'd quite like to get some sleep myself, and the watching's less important than having people and equipment around should your condition suddenly change. Sherlock, I wouldn't make you stay if I didn't think it was the best thing for you."

"You just want to have the flat to yourself for your date." Sherlock said with a smile.

"It's not a date," John said quickly. He smiled though, partly at the unexpected thrill he felt over the idea of a date with Mary, and partly because he was pleased and impressed at how quickly Sherlock was recovering.

"Tell you what," John continued, "if you can walk unaided to the bathroom just there, I'll gladly pack you up and take you home.

Sherlock looked across at the bathroom door. He knew that the few feet might as well be miles and he sighed.

"Traitor," he muttered.

"Have you managed to eat anything yet?"

"Oh, leave me alone."

"You can't keep taking ibuprofen on an empty stomach."

"Stop nagging."

John smiled and sat down on the chair. He picked up a magazine and started flicking through it. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock seemed almost fully recovered.

"Give me the jewels." He said, quite brightly.

"Hm?"

"The jewels. Mary gave you two at Baker Street which knocked loudly against your phone as you put them in your pocket and you picked up two at Mary's flat. Let me have them."

John rooted through his pocket and handed over four boxes to Sherlock.

"I was thinking," John said, "maybe whoever's leaving them is trying to spell something out to Mary. We've had ruby, emerald, pearl, and emerald… R E P E… 'repent' perhaps?"

"Repent, repeal, repeat, repel, repercussion, repeat…" Sherlock smiled at is own little joke, but seemed otherwise quite dismissive about John's suggestion.

His long fingers were opening and exploring the small boxes. He dropped the first emerald onto the bedclothes and John frowned and hurried to find it and put it somewhere safe. Sherlock appeared to barely notice as he removed the cotton wool from the box. John watched as Sherlock pulled out a small piece of paper, folded twice.

"John," Sherlock said, "is it possible that you're the most unobservant, least curious person in the whole world?"

"What? How did you...wait, let me." He took the next box from Sherlock who was threatening to lose the pearl forever. He followed the same process and removed three more pieces of paper from the remaining boxes. He handed them to Sherlock.

"No, the print's too small; you'll have to read them," Sherlock said. "Give me my bag. Let's see what Mrs Hudson's packed for me. _She_ loves me."

John put the bag on the bed and looked at the first piece of paper. He read it aloud.

'_The wife should be respected. She should be given payments for the husband's transgressions. What was his should be given to her.'_

"_Mrs Hudson_ bothered to send me a pair of pyjamas. I've been wearing this hospital gown for two days, John."

"No you haven't; I've changed you twice."

John opened the next piece of paper.

'_Her eyes shine like the diamonds of the Earth. Her smile is like the rising of the sun.'_

"Nice," John said.

Sherlock just grunted in response. "_Mrs Hudson_ sent me some soup. She doesn't complain that I'm not eating then leave me to face hospital food for days on end."

"Good, eat it."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat it."

"It's cold."

"Fine, ask Nurse Celia to heat it for you, then eat it."

He read out the third paper.

'_Is a man still married if he sleeps with another woman? Does this breach of contract automatically release the wife?'_

"Subtle," Sherlock said rolling his eyes. He winced and closed his eyes for a second before going back to his goody-bag. "_Mrs Hudson_ sent me my razor. You know you haven't even tried to make me comfortable, John."

"It's true. I much prefer it when you're looking shabby and old."

Sherlock stopped for a moment. "Why?" he asked, with a frown.

"Because sometimes you need to be taken down a peg or two."

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

"What? Of course you are, Sherlock. It's not like you don't know that, so stop pretending you're even vaguely modest."

"It's not important, it's all secondary to the intelligence. It's just nice to know that I'm both more attractive, and more intelligent than you."

"Yeah, you're the clever one, but I'm sat her _without_ broken ribs and a hole in my skull."

"That was luck. If you'd have had your date with Mary before I had mine, he'd have come after you."

"One; it's not a date, two; he thinks I'm gay." John suddenly frowned. "And three; was yours a date?"

"Of course it wasn't a date. Married to my job, remember."

John read the last piece of paper.

'_The wife MUST be respected. The deceitful husband will be punished.'_

"That's a direct threat," he pointed out.

Sherlock appeared to ignore him. "_Mrs Hudson_ has sent me a card. You didn't send me a card."

"I put your cannula back in, and didn't complain when you threw up on my jumper. Twice."

He handed the card over to John. "What does it say? I can't read her funny writing."

"Are your eyes getting worse?" John asked him, concerned.

"No, just read it."

John glanced at the card. "It says 'be nice to John.'"

"No, what does it really say?"

"That's what it says! 'Be nice to John.'" He held the card up so that Sherlock could inspect it.

Sherlock snatched it back and peered at it closely. He put it down. "I want to go home, John," he whined.

"Fine, there's the bathroom door. You walk there, and I'll happily call us a cab." He watched as Sherlock once again measured the distance and appeared to decide against.

"What should I do with these papers?" John asked him.

"Love letters to Mary," Sherlock said, "you know more about these things than I do, should we give them straight to her?"

"No, I don't think so," John replied. "One's clearly a threat, Sherlock, we ought to at least let Lestrade know."

"Mm," Sherlock said. "I'd like to think about them a while longer. Leave them here, and I'll call Lestrade. You go home then and get ready for your next it's-not-a-date."

John stood up and stretched. "OK, I'll be back in the morning, and we'll see whether you're well enough to come home then. In the meantime, try and eat something and stay out of trouble."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

John walked briskly up the stairs and into his flat. Sherlock was doing well, which was a huge relief, it was fairly clear that the person stalking Mary didn't want her dead, and he was about to spend a whole evening in her company. And while it was clear this was definitely not a date, and that he was just offering a friend some comfort for a while, he was looking forward to it.

Even though he was clear that this was not a date, he decided he would shower and shave, and would wear his second-best shirt, his favourite having been ruined by Sherlock two nights before. He ran upstairs to change.

After that, he skipped downstairs again and turned his attention to the problem with his phone. He decided that he didn't want to be disturbed so he turned it off. He then realised this made it far too much like a date, so he turned it back on again. He then decided that he didn't want Sherlock calling, and Sherlock _would_ call so he turned it off again. He then felt guilty because Sherlock might actually need something, so he turned it on again.

He heard Mary shut Mrs Hudson's door and make her way upstairs and he panicked, pulled all the tea-bags out of the tea caddy, shoved his phone to the bottom and quickly replaced the tea-bags. He had just slammed the top back on as Mary came into the room.

He spun round with a smile. "Mary, hi!" he said.

"Hi," she said brightly. "Are you OK?"

"What? Yes, fine. I'm fine." He stared at her a moment, wondering what to say next. "How are you?" was all that came to mind.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you. Fine." She gazed around the kitchen for a moment. "Oh! How's Sherlock?"

"He's fine. He's doing very well. Really… fine."

"Good."

"Yes. That's all good then."

She looked at him for a moment and then giggled. "You know, I'm really clear in my head that this isn't a date. It would be totally inappropriate for me to start dating on the day I've filed for divorce and while I'm struggling to deal with the whole 'Nick' situation…"

"I agree. I agree wholeheartedly," John said, nodding.

"Still feels awfully like a first date though." She gave him a slightly wicked grin.

He giggled. "Yeah. It does a bit. Will Mrs Hudson be joining us at all?"

"No, I offered but she claimed she has a bad headache."

"OK then, well, would you prefer to eat in or out?"

"In. Please, if that's OK with you."

"It's fine. Right… food. We don't often have any, but I'll have a look." He turned and started randomly opening cupboards in the vain hope that someone had broken in to restock. "I can order in a take-out…"

"Actually I took the liberty of buying a few bits and pieces earlier." She pulled a carrier bag in from the hallway. "I make an excellent Chilli."

"Chilli sounds perfect," he said with a huge smile.

Ten minutes later they were side by side, chopping things, with the small of frying onion and garlic filling the flat.

"Mary, how did you end up with Nick?" John suddenly asked. He looked across at her face as it grew cloudy. "Sorry. It's just I can't imagine you with him at all."

"No, well, I was young and stupid and desperate to get away from my Dad."

John frowned at her, but didn't say anything.

"I'm a proper army brat, John," Mary told him. "Dad was in the forces all of his adult life, and I was shipped about from pillar to post every time he was moved. Mum and Dad… well they got on fine but it worked because he wanted to order people to do his bidding and she seemed to prefer being ordered."

"But you didn't?"

"No. Well, I didn't really notice to be honest; it was just how they were. Then Mum died when I was fourteen."

"I'm sorry."

"Mm, well, Dad seemed to be of the opinion that her role of his personal servant ought to be filled by me. It was a bit awkward. He was stationed here permanently by then, so there wasn't much respite from it. When I got to eighteen I ran off and married a soldier. The irony is I was out of the frying pan and into the fire, but we lived on an army base so there weren't many options and most people there had an element of control-freakary, so Nick didn't seem that unusual. And initially he was quite happy with his pretty young wife to show off so it was OK. It wasn't until a couple of years later when I started Uni for the teacher training that I started realising that I may have made a mistake. Nick hadn't wanted me to go. He was away so I applied and went anyway but he was very cross with me."

"But you stuck with him."

"Yes," she said quietly, "I don't know how much of that was stubborn refusal to admit a mistake and how much was stubborn determination to make my marriage work. Besides, he was away so much of the time so there didn't seem much point to leaving him. Anyhow, I feel like I'm starting now, at the age of thirty-two, at the point where most people are in their early twenties. I feel like I'm running to catch up."

"Mmm. I know that feeling. When I got back from Afghanistan I was genuinely flummoxed about what to do next. I met an old friend, Mike, and he was married, and had children, and was teaching at Bart's where we'd both started out, and I was homeless and career-less and facing starting again at a new hospital or clinic as the new boy. The medical stuff stuck, obviously, and I know that I'm a good doctor and I have skills, but everything else I'd built up in the Army was just gone. It wasn't a good feeling."

Mary served the food up and they took it to the table and sat down to eat.

"Why did you join the army?" Mary asked. "You don't seem like the usual army-fodder. Well, not the parts that I've seen anyway, which I'll admit might be atypical."

"Dull story really; they helped pay for medical school."

"Well, what about meeting Sherlock? That can't possibly be a dull story."

John smiled. "Actually it is. Mike introduced us when we were both looking for a flat-mate. It was nothing more than good luck really. Well, I say 'good'…"

She laughed. "You love him really though, don't you? You clearly aren't the sort of flatmates who live in their rooms and just pass each other in the hallway."

"Well yes, I'd call him a friend, and sometimes I flatter myself to call him a colleague."

A faint, buzzing noise interrupted them and Mary frowned.

"John, is it possible that your tea-caddy is ringing?"

"Yeah, it's just Sherlock. We can ignore it."

They chatted for a while about other things while the phone continued to ring.

"He's certainly persistent, isn't he?" Mary said.

"Yes. That's how I know it's him; anyone else would have left a message but he'll keep going until I answer him."

"Are you going to?"

"No." He smiled and continued eating.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang, followed by someone knocking loudly and impatiently. John ran down to find out who was there and Lestrade pushed himself in as soon as he did so.

"Don't you answer your phone?" he asked John.

"It was you? I thought it was Sherlock."

"No, he sent me to find you; is Mary here?"

"Yes. No, not in there," he said as Lestrade headed towards Mrs Hudson's flat, "she's upstairs."

Lestrade pushed past him again and headed up the stairs with John on his heels.

Mary was stood in the kitchen, looking expectantly at him.

"Mary Morstan?" Lestrade asked her. She nodded. "Mary, I'm afraid I have some bad news… a body's been found a few hours ago. He's wearing your husband's dog-tags. We need to do a formal identification, but at the moment it looks…"

Mary sank down back down onto her chair and caught her breath. She sought John's hand and clung to it.

"I'm very sorry," Lestarde told her, "I'm sorry for your loss. Are you able to come in and identify the body?"

She nodded, mutely.

John squatted down beside her to look at her properly. "Mary? Are you sure you can do this? He's army, they have other mechanisms to identify bodies."

She looked at him. "No, I want to do this. I need to see. To be sure."

He nodded. "OK then, I'll go and get our coats." He gave her hand a quick squeeze and went downstairs to gather what Mary needed from Mrs Hudson.

oOo

John and Mary sat in the back of Lestrade's car. John wasn't quite sure when it had become understood that he would go with Mary, nor could he remember when they'd started holding hands, but it seemed natural and normal that these things should happen.

She continued to cling to him as they were guided into the mortuary. A calm and professional pathologist pulled back the blanket over the corpse. John's quick, clinical mind took in Nick Morstan, looking only slightly different from when he had first met him, but with a bullet hole, looking clean and small through his head. He could see bruises forming over his chest where resuscitation had been tried.

"Mary, could I press you for an answer," Lestrade said, quietly and calmly. "Is this your husband, Nick Morstan?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

John found he wanted to punch him, despite the fact that he knew he was just doing his job, in as sensitive a way as he was able to.

Mary nodded and swallowed. "Yes," she said again, in a slightly louder voice.

She swayed slightly and John pulled her towards him. She turned and hid her face against his chest. His arms went round her instinctively.

"It's OK," he whispered to her, "you're OK, it's all done now. It's all finished."

He nodded to Lestrade then guided her out of the room. He took her to a small and annoyingly closed cafeteria and got he some tea from a vending machine. She revived slightly as she sipped her tea.

"I'm sorry," she said to John.

"It's fine," he assured her, "it's not a particularly nice thing to have to do."

"No, even when you don't much like the person. It looks an awful lot easier on telly. I wasn't expecting…" she drifted off.

John sat with her, patiently.

"I thought corpses…" she tried again.

"No, nothing quite prepares you for seeing a dead person. It's fine, Mary, it's perfectly normal."

She suddenly laughed, humourlessly. "I thought I'd at least get the satisfaction of divorcing him." She said. "Sorry," she said again.

"It's fine." He waited for her to finish her tea. "Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes," she said.

They were quite again, in the cab ride, both of them lost in their own thoughts and only snapping back to the real world when the cab pulled up alongside the house. John paid the driver, then opened the door for Mary. She lingered in the hallway, looking at Mrs Hudson's flat door.

John rested his hand on her back, lightly. "Do you want to come upstairs for a bit?" he asked her.

She nodded, then took his hand and he led her back to his flat.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

John arrived at the hospital just as visiting hours were starting. He found Sherlock sat up in bed with his untouched breakfast on a tray in front of him.

"Good morning," John said brightly.

"Morning." Sherlock cast his eyes over him. "Date went well then."

"It wasn't a date, and yes it did. Well, right up until we had to go and identify her dead husband. That sort of thing tends to put a downer on an evening."

"You slept with her," Sherlock said, conversationally.

John blushed. "No I didn't, Sherlock! How can you say such a thing?"

"I can say it because you clearly did." He looked at John, flushed and frowning. "You're cross! Why are you cross? It was just an observation."

"I'm cross because I didn't, and to suggest that I had sex with someone whose husband had just died shows an absolute lack of understanding about the sort of person I am!" John turned to stare out of the window for a while.

"I didn't say you had sex with her; I said you slept with her. You should know by now if I'd have meant 'had sex with' I'd have said 'had sex with'."

John blushed again and tried to hide a very slight smile. "Oh, well then, maybe. You do know though, don't you. You pretend to be all innocent but then you _imply_ that Sally doesn't just scrub Anderson's floors."

"John I don't talk to you the way I talk to _them_. It was a genuine mistake."

"OK then. Well, I'm sorry I got upset then." He sat down on the visitor's chair. "It was a nice night… it's just all so horribly complicated."

"Because of the dead husband?"

"Because of a lot of things. She's been given jewels; the implication is she's a rich woman, or that her husband was a rich man. I don't like the idea that my interest in her started when she suddenly got showered with wealth." He sighed. "Also, there's the dead husband thing."

"How did he die?"

"He was shot."

John sensed disapproval and he looked up and saw there was indeed a frown on Sherlock's face.

"Oh, sorry," he continued, "he was shot through the right temple, at close quarters, by a low calibre hand-gun. Not a particularly professional weapon, there was no sign of a struggle or a fight but he's a trained fighter so I'd assume he'd been surprised by the gunman. He wouldn't have died immediately but the resuscitation that was tried was carried out by professionals, not by bystanders and not by the murderer."

"Better. Did you get to see the crime scene?"

"No, I took Mary for some tea and then took her home."

"Priorities, John," Sherlock said, with a stern look. "What did Mary tell you about the gems? Does she have any ideas about who's leaving them for her or why?"

"We didn't really talk about that."

Sherlock frowned. "What on Earth did you talk about then?"

"Other stuff. Other, normal stuff."

"Typical date conversation, would you say?"

John blushed. "Shut up," he said.

Sherlock sniggered at him. "Can I go home yet? I feel much better."

John looked across at him. "Did you sleep?"

"I did."

"And did you eat Mrs Hudson's soup?"

"I did."

"And did it stay down?"

Sherlock gave him a side-long look. "Nearly," he said.

"Right."

"Look, I think there was something wrong with the soup; I feel much better now!"

"You haven't eaten your breakfast though."

"I drank my tea!"

John checked. "You drank half your tea."

"John!" Sherlock whined, "Please!"

John looked at him, clearly desperate to get out of the hospital, and he found he felt some sympathy for him.

He sighed. "OK then, do you want to try walking? Let's see how steady you are."

Sherlock instantly smiled and threw back his covers.

"Slowly, Sherlock," John warned him.

Sherlock did slow down and with John's help he got himself upright and his feet to the ground. He stayed, leaning against the bed for a moment. John stood close by, but let Sherlock stand straight up in his own time.

"Are you OK?" John asked.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said.

"I can tell when you're lying, you know."

"No you can't." Sherlock stayed still and steadied his breathing. He let his feet take his whole weight, then he slowly looked up at John and smiled.

"OK, good," John said. "Do you want to sit back down or do you think you can keep going for a bit?"

Sherlock glanced towards the bathroom door. "I'd like to try it," he said.

"OK then, take it steady. It's not a race, Sherlock."

Sherlock walked quite slowly, focusing on each step, staring at the door bathroom door. He used the bed to steady himself.

John watched him for a few moments. "I have to admit I'm impressed," he said.

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. "Is that sarcasm?" he asked.

"No, Sherlock, yesterday you were completely unable to stand upright, and now you're walking. I honestly thought you'd have fainted by now."

Sherlock frowned. "But you let me get up anyway."

"You wanted to try. I'm not going to stop you. Don't worry; I would have caught you before your head hit the floor."

Sherlock snorted. "Thank you," he said, "I'm not sure how I'll get on when we reach the end of the bed though."

"One step at a time, Sherlock."

"Don't be twee, John."

Sherlock paused when he reached the end of the bed.

"Do you want to stop?" John asked him.

"No."

"You sure? You're looking a touch pale."

"Give me a second."

John waited while Sherlock appeared to centre himself. He then took a deep breath, let go of the bed, and walked three calm, controlled steps to the bathroom door. John, lingering inches away from him, grinned.

"Ha!" Sherlock said, elated. He spun round to grin at John, but his face instantly changed and he began to slowly fall.

John caught him before he lost his footing entirely and held him firmly upright against the wall.

"Idiot," he said mildly.

He watched as Sherlock worked hard to fight of the pain and the dizziness. For a moment it looked like he was going to lose, but slowly his breathing steadied and he opened his eyes to look at John.

"OK, well, other than that last two minutes, I feel much better, and I should still be allowed to go home."

John grinned. "OK, well, let's get you back to the bed. If you can eat something, I'll talk to Doctor Martin. Lean on my shoulder."

John guided Sherlock back to his bed and watched as he slowly chewed through a slice of dry toast.

"There," Sherlock said eventually, "can I go home now?"

"I've been thinking..."

"About what? You're not allowed to change your mind; I kept up my side of the bargain."

"No, I was thinking about Mary."

"Oh, dull."

"No, she's not dull, and I wasn't so much thinking about her, but about the jewels. Do you think it's possible that Hassan Hafeez murdered Nick Morstan because he was muscling his way into his family's jewellery business?"

"I think it's possible, but unlikely. If he was protecting his properly, why was he giving it to the wife of the person he thought was a threat? Also, he seemed quite friendly with Nick Morstan. He was certainly happy to help create a honey trap to test his wife. I don't think he's responsible, but it might be worth Lestrade talking to him again."

"Lestrade said he wouldn't talk, he wanted his solicitor and they couldn't charge him."

"Hmm. I wonder if he'd talk to you and me."

"You can't go questioning suspects, Sherlock, I'm not even convinced you should be going home."

"You _promised_."

"No, I didn't promise. I said we'd see."

"_John!_"

John sighed. "OK, I'll help to get you home, but you have to promise you'll stay there, calmly, and that you won't go running around after criminals."

"Aren't you curious to know who killed your girlfriend's husband?"

"She's not my girlfriend! And yes, I'm curious but not to the point I want you permanently damaged, or worse."

"Fine! Fine!" Sherlock scowled. "I promise I'll be a very good patient if I can just go home."

"OK, all right." John sighed again. "I will help you, but you need to respect the fact that you still need to recover properly. And you need to know that the journey home won't be a piece of cake."

"OK. Fine."

"OK then, well, if Doctor Martin agrees, we'll get you dressed and home. I brought clothes for you."

"John?"

"Mm?"

"You're the best friend, ever."

John smiled.

oOo

As predicted, Sherlock didn't find the journey home easy, and John started to question his own judgement as he watched Sherlock struggle with the speed and motion of the cab. He was relieved when they finally pulled into Baker Street and he quickly paid the driver and helped Sherlock over the pavement and through the door.

"Give me a second." Sherlock mumbled.

John, gently lowered him until he was sat down on the stairs, in the same place he'd found him three evenings before.

"You OK?" he asked him.

Sherlock nodded slightly, but kept his eyes closed.

Mrs Hudson's door opened and she instantly rushed to Sherlock, and pulled him against her in a tight hug.

"Oh, Sherlock! You gave me such a fright!"

John tried not to grin as Sherlock's eyes bulged slightly.

"Mrs Hudson," he said quietly, "Sherlock does need to breathe a bit."

She instantly released him and turned to John. "Are you sure he should be here? I'm really not sure it's responsible of you to bring him home so early. There's no harm in letting someone convalesce you know!"

"I'm fine." Sherlock murmured, looking green and uncomfortable.

"You don't look fine," she pointed out.

"I just need a second. And a cup of tea would be lovely." He gave her a wan smile, and she scurried off.

"Ready to do the stairs?" John asked him.

Sherlock nodded and pulled himself up with the help of John and the banisters. They slowly got to the top, and Sherlock sank down gratefully onto the sofa.

Mary appeared behind them with two mugs of tea. She put Sherlock's down on the coffee table and handed John's to him. Their hands brushed slightly as she did so, and she looked up and smiled at John. He returned the smile.

"I'll see you later?" John said tentatively.

Her smile widened and she nodded before heading back downstairs. John watched her go for a moment, then he turned to find Sherlock looking thunderous.

"You did!" Sherlock whispered furiously at him. "You had sex with Mary!"

John blushed beetroot red, then sat down on his armchair.

"Maybe," he admitted. "Maybe yes."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sherlock watched John stare into space with an annoyingly happy expression on his face.

"John. John!" he called, crossly.

John snapped out of it and looked at him. "What? What's up? Do you need a bucket?"

"What? No!" Sherlock frowned at him. "I hope you do recognise how irresponsible it was."

"Really? Well I'm not sure I'm prepared to be lectured by you over it!"

"John! You decided to get involved with someone who's currently a key player in a particularly violent game!"

"What? Well, we know her husband is dead! I'm fairly confident he's not about to resurrect himself and come after my brains!"

"Well he probably wouldn't find any, would he!" Sherlock snapped. "Do I have to remind you that the reason he's dead is that someone else wants to dip their finger into that particular pie!"

"Sherlock! That's a horrible expression!" He frowned. "But yes, I had momentarily forgotten that."

Sherlock huffed.

"OK, so, what do we do next?" John asked.

"Well we could just sit and wait for him to come and kill you."

"Sherlock!"

"Or you could do as planned and head off to Mascara restaurant. Let's see what Mr Hafeez has to tell us about Nick Morstan. He may have changed his tune now Nick's dead."

"OK, I'll go now. Do you want me to call Mycroft to stay with you?"

"What? No! Why on Earth would I want Mycroft?"

"Well, you can't stay by yourself."

"I'm fine, John!"

"You have a _concussion_, Sherlock. It's bad enough you're not in the hospital, I'm certainly not going to leave you on your own."

"Mrs Hudson is just downstairs."

"Which would be a fat lot of use if you're suddenly unconscious on the floor." He looked at him. "I'll ask Mary to come up."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, if I _must_ have a babysitter, she's the least annoying option."

"OK." As John got to the door, he stopped. "Sherlock, you won't mention to Mary that I told you about... me and her, will you?"

"You didn't tell me. I worked it out."

"Yes, but Mary might not appreciate the distinction. I don't want her to think I'm the sort of person who brags to his mates."

"Fine. Whatever. Just go will you? You're making my headache worse."

"It's worse? Do you want me to stay?"

"No!" Sherlock bellowed. He waited for John to leave the room before grabbing hold of his head.

Mary was happy to lend a hand, and she withstood Sherlock's piercing look of disdain fairly well.

"Should I get him to eat something?" She asked John.

"You could try. I bought him Nutella and white bread. If he refuses the bread just give him the jar and a spoon."

"I can hear you, you know!" Sherlock called. "You don't have to treat me like a child!"

John ignored him. "If he needs the bathroom, you'll have to help him."

"No she won't!"

"Actually, John, I'm with Sherlock on that one." Mary said, with a wry smile.

"No, just help him to walk to the bathroom door, he'll be fine after that." John turned to Sherlock. "Are you sure you're OK?"

"Just get out."

"OK."

"Oh, John..." he suddenly called.

"What?"

"Don't forget your gun."

"Oh, right." As he went to get it, he glanced across at Mary who didn't seem at all curious as to why he'd have kept such a souvenir. "Mary if you are at all worried, just call me," he told her, "I'll come home straight away."

"OK." She said.

John kissed her lightly on the cheek and was half way downstairs before he realised that that might have been a touch forward.

oOo

Mascara restaurant was closed, but John could see a number of workers peering at him as he banged on the front door. Eventually, after some discussion, one youngish man was dispatched to find out what he wanted.

"I need to speak to Mr Hassan Hafeez. Can you tell me where he is please?"

"We're closed. Mr Hafeez is not taking any visitors." He was told.

"This isn't a social call." John sighed and pulled out a small leather wallet and showed them his ID. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. I need to speak to Mr Hafeez with regards to his whereabouts yesterday."

The man's eyes widened slightly but he didn't yet let John in.

John sighed. "Look, I'm sure that you and everyone else here has all the correct papers to be living and working in Britain. I don't really want to waste time checking them all, but I will if it's necessary."

The man relented and let him in.

"Mr Hafeez lives here, upstairs," he told John. "He has a guest with him now, but maybe you could go up."

John was lead through to the stairway, and past the public bathrooms to there was a roped off corridor. The young man removed the rope and gestured him through before he disappeared back downstairs.

John turned and started walking along the hallway to where he could hear raised voices. He was about to call out when there was the sound of a gunshot. He froze and flattened himself against the wall, pulling his own gun into his hand. He continued walking quietly along, then, while remaining hidden, he looked carefully through the doorway.

He could see a man, fallen on the ground, and not moving.

"If there's anyone in there, you should know I'm armed, and I'm coming in. If you point a gun at me, I will kill you instantly." He spoke calmly and clearly.

He went into the room gun first. He scanned the area quickly, then more carefully and it was clear that other than the man on the floor, he was alone. There was a door at the far end of the room and he deduced that the gunman had made his escape that way.

He made a split-second decision that he was a doctor before he was a crime-fighter and he went to check out the victim. It was Hassan Hafeez and he was still alive. The shot had gone straight through his shoulder and he was bleeding profusely.

John pulled out his phone, weighed up his options, and called Sherlock.

"John, nice of you to call! Mary and I are having a lovely chat."

"Sherlock, shut up," John whispered. "Hassan Hafeez has been shot, he's alive but bleeding badly, whoever did it is still here, call an ambulance and call Lestrade, get them here." He hung up.

John glanced around the room and pulled a small tablecloth from the coffee table which he made into a pad to hold over Hassan's wound. Hassan's breathing was coming in short bursts, but he was still conscious and he looked at John.

"I told you I was not a well man, Doctor Watson. I will not survive this."

"We'll see." John responded. "Mr Hafeez, did you know the person who shot you?"

"Yes. Oh yes. He is still here."

"I know. Who was it?"

Hassan gasped in pain. "It was my brother. He is still here. He followed Nick to London. He is still here."

"OK, stay still. Don't talk now."

"The stupid man. He wanted Nick's wife. Wanted to shower her with wealth. They argued, Harras and Nick."

"It's OK. Don't talk now, there's an ambulance coming."

"He was a wicked man, Nick Morstan. My brother, Harras, was wicked too. He wanted his wife. He intended to buy her. Nick wouldn't sell." He started coughing and a thin trickle of blood escaped from his lips.

"Take steady breaths, Hassan, the ambulance will be here soon."

"I will not live to see it." Hassan said frankly. He coughed some more and John swore under his breath.

Hassan's expression suddenly changed. "He is here." He whispered.

John frowned, then noticed that Hassan had focused on something else in the room. He rolled out the way and behind a desk, hitting his head hard against the corner. A split second later a bullet lodged into the floor where he had been crouched. He had his own weapon in his hand still, but he didn't want to use it yet. He stayed down, crouched behind the desk, listening carefully.

He could hear the new man walking slowly towards Hassan. He could hear him as he started talking in a dialect John recognised as Afghani, then he shot again and Hassan was dead.

He started turning towards where John was crouched, but John moved first and he stood, pointing his gun at Harras Hafeez.

"Put your weapon down," he commanded.

Harras sneered, then raised his own gun. John didn't wait but shot him clean through the armpit. Harras' gun dropped to the floor and he fell backwards, shouting in pain. John noticed the room go slightly fuzzy and he sat himself slowly down as he heard the sounds of more people running up the stairs.

"Oh hurrah," he said to himself, "here come the cavalry."

oOo

Sherlock was lying on a comfortable looking, temporary bed on the sofa with a spoon in his mouth. He looked up as Lestrade came into the room.

"I've found something that belongs to you," he said with a smile.

John followed him in. There was a bandage over a lump on his forehead. He didn't look at Sherlock as he walked over and sat sulkily down on the armchair. Sherlock watched him curiously and took the spoon from his mouth.

"I told you there'd be trouble." Sherlock said to him.

John remained silent.

"Right, well I'll leave you alone then, I've got some paperwork I need to make disappear," Lestrade said, taking his leave.

As Lestrade went back downstairs, Sherlock looked across at John.

"Should you be at the hospital?"

"No."

"Are you concussed?"

"No."

"Do you want some of my Nutella?"

"No. Shut up."

"Do you need a bucket?" Sherlock said, grinning mischievously.

"No!"

Sherlock considered him, and smiled. "Do you want Mary to come back and look after you?"

John looked across, and gave him a half smile.


	13. Chapter 13

Epilogue

_Six months later_

Sherlock glanced up as John bounded into the room and sat down at the table without talking to him. He was clearly daydreaming. He'd been gone overnight. Again.

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock demanded.

"What? Nothing, I'm fine. I'm very, very... fine."

"You have absolutely no excuse for looking that happy. It's sickening."

John grinned. "I do have an excuse actually. Yesterday I asked Mary to marry me and she said yes."

The effect this statement had on Sherlock was startling. He instantly slammed his book down on the coffee table and rolled over on the sofa into his sulking position. John braced himself. Sherlock rolled back again a second later and started shouting at John.

"Why? What on Earth possessed you to do something so stupid? This is the worst possible news, John! I'd just got you decently trained! And Mary, what on Earth is Mary thinking? She has ample experience of bad marriages and yet for some reason she thinks she's going to buck the trend with you of all people! Hell, John, this is a really terrible idea."

"You don't think I'd be a good husband?"

"No, you'd make a perfectly adequate husband I'm sure. That's not the point."

"What is the point?"

Sherlock glared at him. "The point is... the point is..."

John raised his eyebrows at him.

"You probably have hideous, blonde babies too." Sherlock muttered.

"Oh I should think so. Not immediately but that's the plan."

Sherlock looked up. "You are kidding, aren't you? You're not seriously thinking of procreating?"

John laughed. "Oh yes, I think I'll definitely procreate, Sherlock. Now I know it'll annoy you maybe we'll bring the plan forward! Maybe I'll have... sixteen children. Yes, sixteen, hideous, blonde babies to get under Uncle Sherlock's feet."

Sherlock's eyes flashed and he tried, and failed, not to smile.

John laughed. "So you'll come to the wedding then? We're planning for in the New Year."

"Fine," Sherlock said, trying to look sullen.

"And you'll be my best man?"

Again, Sherlock tried hard not to smile. "Fine, yes. If you do insist on going through with this ridiculous plan, I'd better make sure you do it right."

"Marvellous. I'll let Mary know we've got our own personal marriage counsellor."

Sherlock didn't even try to hide his grin that time.

* * *

**Thank you, reviewers! Thank you so much! I had such trouble with this one, lost the plot (literally, couldn't remember how I intended to finish it), put it down for a month, and managed to finish it off. It was very useful having people encouraging me to finish this one off.  
**

**It's been marvellous reading people's responses all the way through.  
**

**Next up, something Garrideb based, which I'll probably start over the course of the next week.**

**Pip.**


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